Despair
by Endymion forma
Summary: one-shot When trapped in the White Witch's castle, Edmund tries to muster some hope. But through all the cold, hunger, and torture, he finds he has only one thing: despair.


**Despair **

Edmund lifted his weary head, resisting a wince as his stiff neck was forced into movement. He had been lying in the same place for far too long. He knew he was in bad shape, and that his body needed rest, but he also knew that if he submitted to the freezing temperature he could die. He couldn't fall asleep for too long. Had to get the circulation going.

It took some doing, but Edmund got himself into a sitting position. Every time he moved his facial muscles little ripples of pain went shooting through him from the gash on his left cheek or the split on the right side of both lips. His face seemed a particularly popular place for injury; whenever he gave any sign that he had quarrel with the Queen's words or actions, the source of his rebellion was his face. Sometimes words just came out of his mouth that he could not control, or frowns of dissent gave indication of the thoughts he tried so hard not to vocalize. Since the last round of abuse, however, his face had been forced into submission just by virtue of how much pain movement caused.

As he had contemplated these brief thoughts, Edmund had made an attempt at standing. It proved to be a bad idea- lack of food had made him a little lightheaded, just enough to make standing a difficult task. He had food, certainly- the Queen needed him too much as live bait to risk starving him. But Edmund's mouth injuries were constant enough, due to the lack of respectful feedback to the Queen's plans, that eating was a most unpleasant task. He figured he had enough meat on him that he wouldn't starve to death if he waited until his lips stopped cracking and his gums stopped bleeding whenever he so much as opening his mouth. But hunger is never a welcome companion, and it made Edmund's internment in the White Witch's prison all the less pleasant.

The trouble with imprisonment, Edmund had decided, was the lack of entertainment. Boredom is a dangerous thing for the imprisoned soul. It gets one to thinking. When one is holed up in some miserable cell with nothing but one's thoughts for company, one eventually runs out of pleasant things to think of and turns to less happy thoughts- especially if the place in which one is stuck is a particularly nasty one. Such was the course of Edmund's thoughts, quickly moving from hope and denial to despair.

There was little chance of his survival. Or, for that matter, of the survival of his siblings. Edmund was freezing, and weak from hunger and torture, and there was little he could do to thwart the Witch's plans even if he was fit and able-bodied. All that was required for his part of the plan to run smoothly was his continued capture. That was the beauty of the Queen's plan- it's simplicity. There was nothing Edmund could hope for that would allow his escape from the Queen, and as long as he was in her clutches her plan worked perfectly. The thought of this was the cause of despair- that there was no way the Queen's plans could be stopped, save by Aslan, which seemed to be the only – thing? person? - the Queen feared.

And there was no sign of this Aslan chap anywhere Edmund could see. The Witch seemed perfectly confident.

And, even worse, as long as Edmund was stuck with the Queen, he knew his siblings would try to save him. Days of nothing but solitary reflection will lead one to recognize certain truths about oneself that would usually be denied: Edmund knew full well that he was the most selfish of the lot. Or, at least had been- he wasn't so sure any more. But if he knew that even _he himself _would have gone after any of his other trapped siblings, then it was a certainty that they were trying to get to him. And when they did, they would be forced into obeying the Queen's will. They were simply no match for her magic.

Edmund wasn't sure he felt better or worse for sitting up. The injuries on his hands had stopped bleeding when he'd had his arms stretched upwards, propped against the corner behind his head, but now that they were laying by his sides the scrapes had begun to bleed anew. Maugrim had been particularly nasty in this round of attacks, making his scratches peel the skin so that it was harder for the wounds to heal- the flesh had been stripped bare in the little rivets left by his wolf claws, so the blood had a difficult time clotting. For this, Edmund was willing to put himself through a particularly ill-willed series of frowns directed at the stupid furbag. His head had cleared up some, but he wasn't sure the pain was worth it.

Footsteps coming down the corridor. Or, at least, what equated to footsteps in this place. It was the clicking sound of Maugrim's claws, as the beast approached Edmund's cell. _Speak of the devil…_ the boy thought, unwilling to muster a second scowl until the great beast came up to him and could appreciate it.

"We're moving out, boy," growled the Queen's chief wolf before he even came within sight of Edmund. "Get up, move yourself."

This time Edmund could not possible resist a scowl; unfortunately, it was just in time for Maugrim to stop before the boy's cell and open the door. "Don't you look like that, _boy_," he growled in a truly frightening tone. He walked up to Edmund slowly, clearly intending to intimidate the boy. He lifted a paw and extended it towards Edmund's face, drawing his soft fur against the wound on Edmund's left cheek. Suddenly he turned the heavy paw around and struck the boy, laying on him four red stripes. "You should be _grateful_ that the fair Queen hasn't _killed_ you already, son of _Adam_," punctuating certain words with another blow to the face. Edmund still had not cried out; he found that, as terrible as the pain was, it was more tolerable when he was freezing in his cell than up in the Queen's main hall. Here, the cold numbed him a little. But the pain was still great, and his entire face now throbbed. He felt lines of blood creeping thickly down his face and through his hair, rendering him a rather gruesome look.

His face hurt so much that he hardly noticed the fresh wave of agony when he turned his dirtiest look on the wolf yet and said thickly, "She's not my _Queen- _she's not the _Queen_ of anything but her pile of ice and collection of fleabag 'police'."

Fury overtook Maugrim's features, and he drew his paw back to deliver a horrible blow to Edmund, when the boy said, "Careful, Maugrim. I'm needed alive and well."

"For now, son of Adam. But when the time comes for your death, I shall truly enjoy delivering it," he said quietly. "I shall draw out your death for many days, gnawing off a little bit of you at a time." Edmund fancied he could fair hear the beast's mouth salivate at the thought, and couldn't repress a shudder.

"Now come on, you wretch." The beast growled, shoving Edmond off of his seat and walking towards the exit.

For all his bravado, Edmund had no real hope. He defied the Queen to her guards and to her face because it was all he had left. His siblings, try as they might, had no hope of saving him. The queen feared nothing in this realm, and had everything she needed to destroy the last hope Narnia had for defeating this winter. All she needed was a little time, and Edmund could do nothing to forestall it. He was completely at her whim. He would die when she directed it, and until them he would be tortured and frozen near to death.

He was a long way from England and the warm, summer days, indeed; and there was nothing Edmund could do that would ever reverse that fact. He had nothing.

Only despair.


End file.
